The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club

by Lexi Eddings

  “Is that a requirement for us to spend next Thursday together?”

  Her smile grew brittle. “Yes.”

  Jake swallowed hard. He didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. He just wanted the flashbacks to go away without having to rehash it all. When he’d shipped out in that med-vac copter, he was only skimming the surface of consciousness. He’d come to for a moment as the ground sank beneath him and he’d closed the door to Afghanistan in his mind. Now his time in Helmand province kept breaking through around the cracks, but talking to someone about it meant he’d have to pry open the door completely.

  He badly wanted not to have to ask for help. But he wanted just as badly not to mess up this chance to be with Lacy.

  “All right.” If spilling his guts to somebody was the price of admission, he’d do it. “Since you want me to, I’ll find someone to talk to.”

  “Thank you, Jake. But I hope you’ll do it for you, not for me.”

  “OK.” Why kid himself? He was doing it for her. “Then once we finish the chair for Mom, you’ll have to come back out to the lake house so we can show it to her together.”

  His family was planning a start-of-the-season cookout in a few weeks. If he brought Lacy, it would get his family off his back about finding a girlfriend.

  “After what I did to your dad’s boat, are you sure you want me at the lake house?”

  He wanted her all right. Anywhere he could have her. That was the one thing he was sure of.

  “It’ll be OK.” He flashed his best smile and, wonder of wonders, she returned it. “If they can raise the Titanic, I ought to be able to figure out how to raise a rowboat.”

  Chapter 13

  I watch Dr. Phil. I know folks are always trying to feel better about life by talking themselves blue over every little thing that ever happened to them. But to my mind, the best way to feel better about my troubles is to help somebody else get a handle on theirs. Everybody who has skin needs to give and receive some hugs. That’s why I hand them out at the Green Apple, along with the raspberry tart.

  —Ethel Ringwald, waitress at the Green Apple Grill

  “I saw that movie back when I was in Boston, but my attitude was pretty bad then. I was hoping that had colored how the story hit me.” Lacy and Heather Walker came out of the Regal Theater and headed toward their building across the street on the Square. “Unfortunately, my attitude wasn’t the problem. The movie hasn’t improved with time.”

  “I know what you mean,” Heather said. “All rom-coms follow the same tired formula. The couple starts out hating each other with a purple passion. They’re at loggerheads for the entire movie, and then when all seems lost, they suddenly discover they can’t live without each other.”

  “Right? Why can’t they make a movie where the couple starts out as friends or at least able to tolerate each other? Instant hate that changes to eternal love in ninety minutes or less is a little hard to swallow.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t help hoping, can we?” Heather grinned as they turned down the alley that led to the iron staircase and deck they shared.

  “So I’m guessing you’re not seeing anybody,” Lacy said.

  Heather shook her head as they climbed the stairs. “I work such weird hours at the hospital, it’s hard to meet someone.”

  “No workplace romance, then?” Lacy said. Heather was an RN in the emergency room at Coldwater General. “In my mom’s soaps, hospitals are always hotbeds of romantic intrigue.”

  “I make it a point never to date a patient. All the doctors are either married or hopelessly old or both. And the only male nurse is sweet, but he’s gay. There’s a cute EMT who comes in sometimes, but he’s always out again before I can shake free of the emergency he brings us.”

  “Too bad,” Lacy said as they continued to climb. “How did you come to rent from Mrs. Paderewski? I thought your family owns most of the buildings ringing the Square.”

  “They do. Pretty much all of them except this one that belongs to Mrs. P. Oh! And the one that houses the Green Apple. Jacob Tyler owns that,” Heather said. “My folks have renovated most of the second stories around the Square into residential apartments, though I think a couple of college kids use the one over the ice-cream shop as office space. They’re trying to put together an IT start-up. At least that’s what my dad hopes they’re doing. They keep the shades drawn so he’s not really sure.”

  “What else might they be up to?”

  “Meth lab, online porn site, who knows? There’s no end to my dad’s ability to think the worst of people.”

  “Well, why didn’t you rent that place from your folks instead of Mrs. P’s unit? It would’ve spared them the agony of wondering what’s happening behind the drawn shades.”

  “And why didn’t you move back in with your parents?” Heather said with a roll of her eyes.

  “Point taken.” When they reached the top of the stairs, Lacy said, “I’d ask you in for a drink, but I can’t vouch for your safety. My cat isn’t very sociable.”

  “Is it your cat or did Mrs. P stick you with one of hers?”

  “One of hers? She said Effie was left by the previous tenant.”

  “Naw, that’s just her way of finding a home for one of her rescue cats,” Heather said. “She bullies new renters into taking one and then charges them pet rent for the privilege.”

  Lacy huffed indignantly. “You might have warned me. Did she get you to take one, too?”

  Heather shook her head. “I told her I had a goldfish so I couldn’t have a cat.”

  “Wish I’d thought of that. Did you have a fish?”

  “I do now,” Heather said with a grin. “Come on in and I’ll introduce you to Errol Finn. If you don’t want sangria, I’ve got some decaf or herbal tea.”

  “Tea would be great,” Lacy said as she followed Heather into her place. “Well, this is cute.”

  Heather’s apartment was the mirror image of Lacy’s. Her tastes ran more to shabby chic than the spare clean lines Lacy favored, but the place was neat and well pulled together. It was as restful as Heather’s company, and Lacy needed restful after the time she’d spent with Jacob at the lake that afternoon.

  “And here’s Errol.” Heather waved a hand toward the small bowl on the end of her kitchen counter. A little goldfish swam in slow circles around the perimeter.

  “Bet he’s a lot less trouble than Effie. I hope she’s a good mouser.”

  Heather’s eyes widened in alarm. “You have mice?”

  “No, but I just keep hoping the cat has at least one redeeming quality. I never met a more aloof, more . . . entitled creature in my life—and bear in mind I’ve worked with the upper crust of Boston!” Lacy said. “The only good thing Effie has ever done is rub on Jake’s prosthetic leg as if it were a real one.”

  “At least the cat has good taste in men. Jacob Tyler. Now that’s a topic I was hoping would come up. I heard you two were going out,” Heather said as she put on the kettle. “Spill.”

  “Word travels fast around here. Even if it isn’t on the Methodist prayer chain.” Lacy sat on one of the two bar stools at Heather’s counter. “But I wouldn’t say Jake and I are going out. More like just spending time together. As friends.”

  Heather cast a skeptical glance her way and plucked a couple of mint tea bags from the tin. “Can any girl really be ‘just friends’ with Jake Tyler?”

  “She can if she’s trying not to get her heart broken. You know how he is.”

  “How he was,” Heather corrected. “He’s changed since we were in high school. And I don’t mean just his leg, though I’m sure that’ll do a number on any guy.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about him.” If Lacy did, it would feel like a betrayal. In the short time they’d spent together, she’d discovered a number of his secrets. She didn’t want to let one slip.

  “Okay.” Heather switched topics and asked about her new job at the Gazette. Then when that subject dried up, Heather steered the conversation to La
cy’s old job in Boston.

  She seriously didn’t want to talk about that either. “So, Heather, since you’re a nurse, maybe you can help me. I’m thinking about doing a piece for the Gazette about PTSD.” She was thinking no such thing, but it was a safer subject than Boston or Jake. “What can you tell me about the disorder?”

  Heather cocked her head to one side as if scenting a deception, yet not quite able to decide what it might be. “Well, some experts describe PTSD as a natural reaction to an unnatural circumstance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “PTSD happens when a person has been subjected to a traumatic event. Something really out of the ordinary. An assault, a terrible accident, something life-threatening.” The kettle sang out so Heather removed it from the burner. She filled their cups and dunked both teabags. “Statistically, women are more likely than men to experience PTSD.”

  “Oh? That’s news. I always thought of it as an issue for the military.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Heather said. “It’s definitely a problem for the armed services and has been since they called it ‘shell shock’ back in World War One. They described soldiers returning from the trenches as having a ‘thousand-yard stare.’”

  Lacy lifted her teabag and dunked it again. A minty aroma rose from the cup. A thousand-yard stare? While Jake was having that flashback, his eyes had been wild, but he didn’t stare like that all the time. “How can you tell if someone has PTSD?”

  “A doctor needs to make that diagnosis, but there are some strong indicators anyone can observe.”

  “Like flashbacks?”

  “Yes, and nightmares. A change in personality. They become detached from the people they used to care about. Their symptoms start to interfere with work.”

  Jake was still involved with his family and he was the life’s blood of the Green Apple. But while he and Lacy were together at the lake, he’d definitely had an episode when he didn’t seem to know where he was or whom he was with.

  “Shouldn’t you be taking notes if this is for a piece in the paper?” Heather asked.

  “Probably. But right now I’m just gathering a little background info. If I quote you, I’ll run it by you before it goes to print.”

  Heather shrugged her assent. “Do you like honey in your tea?” she asked as she took a jar down from the shelf and spooned some into hers.

  “No, I learned to drink it straight up. It’s easier.” And cheaper. In the early days when she was trying to get her business off the ground, she had economized any way she could. Lacy took a small sip so as not to burn her tongue.

  She wondered how long it had been since Jake had lost his leg. He was home before his dad passed last year, so the blast that took his leg had happened before that. Since she was in charge of the “Ago” columns at the paper, no one would think it strange if she dug into the archives for that info. Surely there had been a piece about Jake’s return home.

  “You say PTSD is triggered by trauma. Do people show symptoms right away after the event?”

  “Usually within a month. But not always. Sometimes it takes years to show up.”

  “Is it curable?” Lacy asked.

  “It’s treatable, which isn’t quite the same thing. Sometimes, the symptoms go away completely the farther you get from the event,” Heather said. “Then in other cases, the best you can hope is that symptoms become less pronounced over time. It’s sort of like diabetics who monitor their blood sugar to help control the disease. Someone with PTSD can learn to live with it and keep away from triggers that launch an episode.”

  Lacy wondered what about being at the lake had triggered Jake’s flashback. “But what if it’s not treated?”

  “PTSD can lead to depression, which is a lot more serious than people think. It’s much more than just feeling blue,” Heather said. “Then if patients self-medicate their depression with drugs or alcohol, it can end in addiction. And often in homelessness.”

  “Do you suppose that’s what happened to Lester Scott?” He’d been homeless since he’d left Daniel’s mother a few weeks before Lacy’s graduation. Back when she was dating Daniel that summer, he hadn’t been one to talk about what had happened with his father. But she’d made some pretty good guesses. No one should need to go to the emergency room as often as his mother had. And Daniel had his own share of unexplained bruises and broken bones over the years, too, until Lester limped out of their lives.

  With a shiner and a cast of his own.

  Lacy hadn’t had much sympathy for the homeless vet. But now she wondered if he was a victim of PTSD, too.

  “Oh! So this is about Lester,” Heather said with obvious relief. “For a minute, I was afraid you were worried about Jake. He sure seems like he’s adjusted well enough, but I thought maybe you knew something I didn’t. Come on into the living room and let’s get comfy.”

  Lacy carried her warm cup into the next room and settled in a corner of the over-stuffed sofa. She missed Shannon so, but Heather was quickly filling up that empty friend space. They’d taken different sorts of classes in high school—Lacy gravitating toward the arts and Heather eating up as much math and science as she could—so they really hadn’t known each other well then. Now it felt wonderful to be able to relax with someone who was smart, perceptive, and not overwhelmed by drama of her own.

  Lacy was determined not to burden Heather with any of hers. She knew in her head that was what friends were for, but it was still hard for her to let anyone into her private space.

  “Say, I’ve got an idea for an article for the paper.” Heather took the opposite corner of the couch. She set her teacup on the end table, kicked off her shoes, and pulled her feet up, crossing her ankles yoga style. “How about doing a piece on the Coldwater Warm Hearts Club?”

  “The what?”

  “The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club. That’s what we call ourselves, though it’s really not so much a club as, well, just a group of friends who meet for breakfast at the Green Apple. Tuesday mornings at seven-thirty. I’m just getting off my shift then, but it’s before work or school for the rest of the gang.”

  Lacy set her cup down, too. “What do you meet about?”

  “About how to help other people.”

  “Oh. It’s another service club.” Wanda Cruikshank had already assigned Lacy a piece on the Rotarians and their upcoming spaghetti dinner to raise funds for school supplies in Guatemala. Then just to make it fair, over the next few weeks, Lacy would have to do articles on the Lions Club, the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, and the PEO.

  “Yeah, I suppose you could call us a service club, but we’re not all that organized about it,” Heather said. “We’re different in another way, too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, we do good like the members of those other organizations, but unlike them, we have an ulterior motive.”

  “Oh, my.” Lacy sat up straight, intrigued. “That sounds slightly sinister.”

  “Not really. It has to do with the whole karmic, sowing and reaping thing. That’s the reason we do good, you see,” Heather said. “All the members of the Coldwater Warm Hearts Club have things in our pasts we’re trying to work through. In my case, it’s survivor guilt.”

  “Oh.” Lacy remembered running into Heather on her first day home at the grave of her sister. “Because of Jessica.”

  Heather nodded and sighed. “She was the golden child. I was the also-ran. When she died, I was sure my parents wished it had been me who drove that car into the lake.”

  “Heather, I’m sure they didn’t.”

  “I am, too. Most of the time.” She took a long sip of her tea. “Guilt over being the one ‘not taken’ drove me nuts all through college and well past graduating from nursing school.”

  “So what got you through it?” Lacy asked.

  “Do you remember Mrs. Chisholm?”

  Lacy frowned. “Wasn’t she the town librarian when we were in grade school?”

  “The same.” />
  “I remember she complained about everything. We were always too loud. We didn’t handle the books carefully enough to suit her. We let the door shut behind us too hard. She was positively ancient when we were little,” Lacy said. “Is she still alive?”

  “And still complaining.” Heather chuckled. “Being confined to a wheelchair hasn’t sweetened her temper one bit, but she’s lucky enough to still be in her own home. Her poor niece Peggy takes care of her.”

  “Sign her up for the Mother Teresa Award.” Lacy raised her teacup in salute.

  “Amen.” Heather lifted her cup as well and clicked rims with Lacy. “Anyway, I could see how Peggy was flagging each time she brought her aunt to the hospital for this or that. So on my next day off, I offered to take care of Mrs. Chisholm so Peggy could have a little time to herself. I don’t know what possessed me to do it.”

  “Martyr complex?”

  Heather shook her head. “It was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. The old lady is just as difficult as she ever was. In only one afternoon, I was exhausted by her constant demands, but Peggy was so pathetically grateful, it was worth giving up my free day.” A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “And I noticed something as I walked home.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t feel crappy about me for a change. Compared to Peggy’s burden, mine felt light.”

  Lacy chuckled. “You know that’s why horror films are so popular, don’t you? They prove however awful we think things are, they could always be worse.”

  “It was more than that,” Heather insisted. “Feeling guilty for breathing is a full-time job, and believe me, I’d been gainfully employed for a long time. When I helped Peggy, I got out of myself for a while. I stopped feeling guilty about me while I put someone else first.”

  “And that put everything in a different light,” Lacy said in sudden understanding.

  “Right. After that, I started organizing regular respite days for Peggy, setting up a rotation of alternate caregivers. Then I experimented with other ‘random acts of kindness.’” Heather made air quotes with her fingers. “In every case, I got more out of the deal than the people I helped.”